


Left Field

by Brenda



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:09:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected birthday gift.  Takes place pre-season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Left Field

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendy/gifts).



> Originally written in July of 2007 for Wendy, who wanted Sam birthday fic and gave me the prompts - _Sam remembers the first gift Dean ever gave him...a baseball mitt_ and _Sam is at Stanford and missing his family_.

"Come on," Jess smiles, and leans up on her tiptoes to kiss your bare shoulder. Her hair's still frizzy-wet from the shower. "We're gonna be late."

You pause in the act of combing your hair – already unruly and curling around your ears in spite of the recent trim – and give her a quizzical look through the mirror. "Late for what?"

"Don't tell me you forgot your own birthday."

"No, of course not," you reply, a little uncomfortably, because, maybe, you, uh, might have. Let it slip your mind, that is. Birthdays and holidays don't mean as much to you as some people. 

Another Winchester family legacy.

"Liar," Jess replies fondly, and gives your ass a squeeze before stepping back. You follow her into the bedroom, leaning against the doorjamb to watch her graceful progress across the room. When you actually _do_ earn your law degree, the first thing you're going to do is defend Jess' right to be naked at all times.

"So, you taking me someplace romantic?" you tease, mourning inwardly when Jess fastens on a wispy, lacy bra and shimmies into a matching pair of panties.

"Maybe not romantic, but I think you'll be pleased," she replies, with that wide, full smile that knocked you on your ass the first time you ever saw it. 

"Well, don't keep me in suspense."

You keep your expectant smile until she brandishes the tickets from behind her back and you see the familiar logo in one of the corners. 

"Baseball tickets?" you manage, proud that your voice doesn't tremble.

"Right behind home plate," Jess tells you, and chews her lower lip as she peers up at you. "A's vs. the Devil Rays, first pitch is at 7:05."

"Uh...wow." It's all you can think to say.

"You don't like it."

You hate yourself a little for putting that wounded look in her eyes. "No, no, I love it," you tell her, still amazed that you can lie to her with a straight face, that you can lie, without batting an eyelash, to the woman you love. "It just...I didn't know you knew I was a fan."

"You keep that old baseball glove in your armoire," she shrugs, still looking nervous. "I always wanted to ask who gave it to you."

It takes you another minute to find your voice. "My dad," you say quietly, chest tight. 

For a split second, you're back in a crappy field next to a crappy parking lot of some crappy motel with your brother and dad, playing catch. You can hear Dean's voice telling you that you catch like a girl, hear Dad admonishing Dean not to tease you as he lobs another ball at you and you try to block it from going in the dirt, using your entire body the way that Dad taught you. When you toss the ball back, the setting sun frames your dad and brother like a painting.

For a split second, all you can smell is grass and the leather of your glove, smells of springtime, of renewal and hope. In that moment, you're ten years old and you can't imagine ever wanting to be anywhere other than where you are right this instant.

The present comes rushing back as warm understanding fills those beautiful, remarkable eyes, and she nods. "Oh. Well, we don't have to go."

"No." You pull her close, slide your hands along her back. She curls into you easily and you tilt her head back for a sweet kiss, one of forgiveness, and you're thankful that she doesn't press the issue. "Behind home plate, huh? How'd you score those?"

Her return grin is one of feminine mystery, and you concentrate on that. On Jess, and the sense of hope and promise she gives you with every kiss. 

You've left the ghosts behind you.

***


End file.
